


Perpetual Ties

by GuardianOwlet



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianOwlet/pseuds/GuardianOwlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some bonds are forged forever, but when they start coming undone, there is only one man time will call upon.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Change the World

**Somewhere - Space**

The Doctor sat in the TARDIS, simply sat.  
Closing his eyes he leaned against her, relaxing into the being that he had spent much of his 900 years with. He calmed his breathing and listened intently to the beating of his own hearts, frowning as he was immediately reminded of memories, many of them he was still running away from while others simply ached, those were the worst. His eyes opened slowly, he did not need sleep, though every night, or day or moment he was alone he still tried; always failed.  
“Alone again.” The Time Lord whispered, smiling softly as the TARDIS groaned, indignantly, he thought, though it only made his smile wider; she was never this noisy when others were around, but then, he never listened when there was something else to do, he never remembered.  
“Am I really worth it?” He said softly to the TARDIS, angrily he grabbed a control and pulled it, “Well? Am I!?”  
She hummed sadly in reply.  
The Doctor sighed violently, though he began to calm down, “I need something, anything, a reason.” He replaced the control gently and gave the TARDIS a reassuring pat, “I need a purpose that doesn’t involve hurting people.”  
He muttered quietly, sadness from the statement welling up inside him, “Or at least some sort of clarification.” He bit his lip nervously, but she had already taken his statement to heart.  
Before he could redirect her, the TARDIS had landed.  
Straightening his bowtie, and forcing himself to be carefree once more, the Doctor opened the door.

 

**2004 – Bath, England**

The door creaked in annoyance as I inched it open, shedding light on the attic for the first time in at least fifteen years. I waded through the sea of dust, disturbing it so that it floated around me as I began opening unopened boxes, and generally upsetting whatever ecosystem had developed in the apparently tamed room. I searched each box thoroughly, the object of my hunt unknown, yet I knew that this was where I would find it.  
My eyes narrowed as, brushing the dust from another box, I spied a faded word - ‘Family’. With renewed energy I dove into the box.

My school project this term was to research my family tree, both my parent’s told me that the Watts name was a noble, dignified line, unfortunately, not one of them knew how this nobleness came about.  
The only interest in our history that either of them had shown was when they had christened me ‘Jaine’, after my grandmother, despite the fact that I was not actually female; the unforeseen consequences of their actions resulting in me being kicked out on my first day of school.  
Every teacher that had me insisted that I was lying when I said that my name was Jaine, they each called me a smart-arse in turn, and sent me to sit outside.  
I have not heard of a six-year-old on their first day of school which has misbehaved, let alone been a smart-arse.  
My resentment towards my parents has lasted to this day, and so have the hoard of nicknames actual smart-arses came up with.

I flicked through the faded pictures and books, uninterested; according to all of them my family had the most boring history imaginable. My grandfather was a shoe-shiner, who had married my grandmother Jaine, a baker, and had started a business that sold customers bread while they shined their shoes.  
This would not do, this would not do at all.  
Sighing, I reached for the last few books; they were different from the others. These weren’t photos or even proper history; they were fiction.

I sat myself in a dusty chair and began to read, they were brilliant.  
The stories were about two detectives, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson as they solved unsolvable cases.  
A light began to appear, a way for me to have the most interesting history of anyone who had ever done this project; this Watson character could be my ancestor, or at least, for the sake of my project, I would make it look like he was.

........

Surprisingly, I actually really liked the library. It was calm, quiet, and researching Dr. Watson was much more interesting than failing to discover my own family history.  
His life was amazing.  
Holmes and Watson’s lives were remarkable, full of danger and friendship, John had even managed to marry and have children.  
A thought struck me, the books, published under his name, had been put in the box labelled ‘Family’. It didn’t take me long to let out a huge whelp has I found the link which connected this extraordinary man with my own family, a second wife taken after his original had died.  
Equally exciting was the gradual discovery that the books weren’t actually fiction; each was a carefully documented biography of the cases that him and his partner, Holmes, had solved.  
My eyes widened as an idea to better my project, and satiate my own interest, came into my head. It hadn’t been too difficult to find my own lineage by working my way up Watson’s tree; surely I could do the same thing for Mr Holmes?

My work pace tripled as I searched with vigour I had never yet experienced, the result was worth it though.  
Sherlock Holmes’ offspring had travelled far and wide, most were elderly, and had scattered themselves across Europe, though a younger generation had branched all the way across to Australia.  
I leant back in my chair, a look of wonder spreading across my face. Would it be at all possible to contact them? At least the younger ones, definitely the one in Australia; it would be seriously cool to get chatting with someone from the other side of the world, especially if I could present it all in front of the class.  
I smiled; something this interesting would get me up in front of the school for sure. I could see it now, _’15-year-old follows in ancestor’s footsteps’_ , the whole country would know me, I might even be able to get Dr Watson’s books in circulation; there was millions to be made!  
A smile crossed my face, the money didn’t really matter to me, but the friendships - two hundred year old friendships - were up for the making, and that was something I would not let go of easily.

..........

The letters were short, concise; I got quickly to the point of our shared heritage and said that I hoped they would write back soon.  
The day of my presentation came swiftly, when I told the teacher of my brilliant idea, and the fact that I had already sent out letters, she gave me a sad smile, “It was a good idea Jaine,” she said, “But I wouldn’t get my hopes up for a reply if I were you.”  
“What do you mean?” I replied, confused.  
She bit her lip, “Not everyone finds what everyone else thinks interesting.”  
My shoulders drooped, and I looked down at my trainers, which were scuffed, despite my attempts at keeping my first expensive pair of shoes clean.  
I did well on the assignment, but my teacher was right.  
No one ever did reply.


	2. Unreasonably Mundane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bonds are forged forever, but when they start coming undone, there is only one man time will call upon.   
> The TARDIS' idea of clarification leads the Doctor to one of the smartest men on Earth, also one of the most conceited and sexual.   
> Shannon is not ordianary, but her life is.

**Late 1500s – Cambridge, England**

The Doctor walked briskly out of the TARDIS, before turning and grasping onto it for dear life.  
Night had masked the distance between solid ground and water, so he had almost walked directly into what seemed to be the river Cam. Steering around his police box, the Doctor turned around quickly to find the King’s College Chapel towering over him, shining with the lustre that only youth can bring.   
“Damn,” he said, a half-smile on his face, “don’t you look fresh? Only about fifty years in, aren’t you? Let me tell you, you have a while to go yet.”  
He turned his attention back to the TARDIS, “Now, why have you brought me here?”  
As he expected, she did not give him an answer.  
“Well then.” He said, striding forward, now ignoring the mighty Chapel in front of him and making his way down the Cam to the Mathematical Bridge.  
“Legend says,” he began, speaking to no one in particular, “that the bridge was built with no nuts or bolts, the pure weight and distribution of the wood kept itself up; ingenious design.”  
He came to a halt suddenly.  
“It isn’t built yet.” He sat down dejectedly, startling as raised voices were heard from the direction he had come.   
“Since that I may know, as liberally as to a midwife, show thyself.” A man’s voice cried.  
A women’s reply echoed, soft but assertive, “Leave me, John.”   
“To teach thee, I am naked first.” John seemed to be getting slightly pedantic in his quest, the Doctor sighed, and headed in the directing of voices; he knew exactly when he was now.  
“John!” The girl cried out, disgusted, walking away just as the Doctor strode into the clearing.  
“John Donne,” He said, gazing at a black-haired youth who, contrary to what he had been saying, had merely removed his shirt, his neat bottoms remaining intact and covering his legs, “You’re intelligent, for sure, but this wasn’t what I had in mind when I asked for clarification.”   
The boy studied the Doctor with a practised eye, finally, giving him a quick wink, “Let’s go to mine, I have some small companions sharing my bed, I wish to introduce them to you.”  
“Priest my buttocks.” The Doctor replied, sighing heavily.

 

**2012 – Melbourne, Australia**

The girl talking was nervous, that much was obvious.   
Those yawning as she spoke at the assembly thought her irritating, and inevitably cocky, but they did not observe her as I did.   
Her brow was damp, and blazer she wore was visibly drooping due the perspiration it now contained. Her iron grip on the lectern made even me question the solidness of the wood, for it seemed that all things should collapse beneath such tight a hold.   
Her voice, which was higher than normal, seemed condescendingly cheerful, and she was finding it difficult following the scripted words on the page, losing them as she made a show of looking up and smiling at the audience, as no doubt a helpful friend had told her to do beforehand.   
What resulted was a long, drawn out speech, admittedly she was working to make her voice interesting, stressing words in order to give it a lilting flow, unfortunately she was stressing all the wrong words; giving off the feeling of a compound piece being conducted in simple time.   
For those of you less musically inclined, it was like nails on a chalk board, with a bit of salt rubbed into the wound for good measure.  
 Most found her annoying.  
If I wasn't so indifferent I might find her endearing, smile at her good effort.  
But I didn't particularly care, so my stoic facade remained.

I was jerked out of my observations by the boy beside me, "Stop fidgeting will you?" he said snidely. I raised my eyebrows, but did as he asked and ceased my unconscious ticking. He turned to his friend beside him and laughed boastingly, pointing quite obviously to me as he mimicked my reaction. I checked my watch, then systematically grabbed the adolescent’s ear, yanked it backward and, using my other hand, flipped him over his chair; he landed heavily on the laps of the row behind.   
I stood abruptly and began walking to the door.   
"Shannon!" Mr Crum yelled at me.  
"Yes, I know," I called over my shoulder, "I'll be seeing you in detention."  
The bell rang right on cue.

.........

“Hale.”  
“Present.” I replied, almost feeling sorry for the final girl to enter the classroom, her tardiness had presented her with the worst possible punishment, only one vacant chair, which was to the left of me. She approached with caution and turned to face me, then quickly averted her gaze; I pressed my fingers together in thought.   
It was the same at whatever school I went to, something about my general person either made people run for the hills, or try and actually interact with me.   
To me, the former was most preferable. 

I sighed as my attention returned to the teacher, who was trying to write something intelligent about Macbeth on the whiteboard. To most people, though they would wish it otherwise, their teacher is smarter than them; whereas, there was a reason I called all my teachers ‘dumb-arse’.   
They don’t like it as much as one might think, though they do call me ‘smart-arse’, so we generally manage to get along; today though, after assembly, I wasn’t much in the mood.   
I raised my hand.

The teacher, as I knew she would, ignored it.  
But it buzzed there, not wavering. Eventually all my classmates were watching me and my immovable hand.  
The teacher looked me in the eye, I smiled, “That is incorrect.”  
She shut her eyes for a second, and creased her forehead, “Shannon, what do you want?” She said finally, her voice tired.  
I felt something. I knew that I should not correct her, that she was only slightly off and that there was little point to the exercise. I did not need to prove my intelligence; it was there for all to see. But as I watched the teacher’s body straighten, her eyes steel, I remembered why I insisted on doing what I did; I got bored.  
“Besides your abysmal understanding of the use and rules of syntax, your analysis of the characters, specifically Lady Macbeth, though the others have greatly suffered, is incomprehensible. Your attempts at a diet are equally appalling, and I am sorry, but your self esteem is not going to go up unless you stop hounding after every guy that is a semblance of civil to you.”   
The teacher took a deep breath in as I leaned back into my chair, crossing my arms.   
She steadied herself as she retreated behind her desk and said one word; it brought a renewed smile to my face.  
“Out.”  
I picked up my books and headed towards the door, I couldn’t help saying a few words of wisdom in parting, “Don’t eat that candy bar, now.”  
She looked to her closed bag in disbelief and then cracked; “Get _out!_ Go see what the principle has to say about this!”  
I did as she asked.

................

I sat outside the principal’s office serenely.   
What my teacher, and everybody else who taught me failed to understand, was that I did not care what people thought of me; not the teachers, nor the principal, not even my adopted parents. The only people who I would even think about feeling ashamed for were not around, and hadn’t been since I was six months old.   
My parents, who they were was a mystery that had clawed at me my entire life.   
The one problem that I was unable to solve was myself; I did not know who I was.

The secretary beckoned me forward and into the principal’s office, it appeared that he did not know what to think of me either, simply gazing at the student who was able to achieve 100% in each class, whilst being systematically thrown out of them just as much.   
We sat there; staring.  
The bell rang.  
“I’ll see you Thursday after school, then.” I said, standing abruptly.  
He nodded warily and waved me out.  
We left in our accustomed silence.

.................

The door slammed with a bang as I let myself into the empty house; both my parents worked in the city, so I was often left in our suburban house to fend for myself, while they did their best to get home on the train; they were often late due to the incompetence of the Metro train system.   
I gingerly flicked through the letters I had yanked from the letterbox: bill, bank statement, late birthday card to my mother, I paused.  
My hand hovered quickly over a letter, childlike in appearance, which was addressed to me. I studied it quickly, trying to identify what it could possibly be.  
It was from a boy, younger than me, closer to sixteen than eighteen; it was neat, unusual for a person of that age, so this meant something.   
I turned it over to the envelope side; my eyes widened.  
It was from England.  
Eight years ago.  
I ripped it open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter is a bit more interesting than the last, Shannon is a little more colourful than Jaine, I feel.  
> John Donne was a poet who was at Cambridge in the late 1500s. He is said to be the father of metaphysical poetry, publishing many poems about both leud acts, and in later life about God; he ended up as a famous priest. The 'companions' in his bed is a reference to his poem 'The Flea'.  
> This chapter is dedicated to Ely, my Literature buddy :)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, thank you for reading. I know everyone says this, but please review, it really does help!!  
> The story has a while to go yet, and I hope to get the next chapter up soon.  
> Believe me, the fun is just beginning!!


End file.
